Ryman, Rebecca (104 page)

"Ah
yes, what a sad loss has been the untimely demise of your dear uncle—a fine
gentleman, very fine indeed." He paused for a decent interval, wiped an
imaginary tear, heaved a sigh of grief, then became brisk again. "The lady
memsahib's plan is ambitious and also long term. Do I take it that she will
then not be deserting us—leaving us utterly bereft—and going to lord sahib in
London?" Unafflicted by codes of ethics, Mooljee had no qualms about
asking openly what others wondered only in private.

"Yes,
it is ambitious and long term." Olivia knew the reason for his concern
and, side-stepping a complete answer, produced a purple satin-covered box from
her purse. "This is my collateral against the loan. An authorised
valuation is in the lining, but you are free to make your own if you wish. You
will find this covers my loan very adequately. And my funds will not be long in
arriving from England."

He
made vehement protestations that he cared nothing for collateral. Indeed, if
her honourable family's solvency could be questioned, then what was
he
save
a miserable worm, a penniless pauper. "For Ram Chand Mooljee," he
thundered, "the lady memsahib's word is enough,
enough!"
Nevertheless
he opened the box to cast a careless glance within. He recognised the tiara
immediately, for he never forgot gem stones he had once seen. It was part of a
collection he had evaluated for Lady Bridget years ago and its diamonds were
flawless, worth far more than the sum of the loan requested. There was no
change in his remorseful expression as he snapped the box shut. "The money
will be delivered to your residence in the morning." He scribbled out a
quick receipt. "Will that be convenient?"

"Perfectly.
Thank you."

Business
satisfactorily concluded, Mooljee allowed the corners of his mouth to sag a
little. "It has pained me greatly to learn of the honourable Agency's
troubles with Kala Kanta. The man is a menace. I have always believed these
Eurasians cannot be trusted."

She
almost smiled; Mooljee, she knew, was one of Raventhorne's most loyal
supporters. She got up to leave. "Problems come and go, Mr. Mooljee. One
learns to keep them in proper perspective."

The
money-lender's shifty little eyes gleamed with admiration. What a woman! Naturally,
it was she who was at the eye of all the problems, but to be so daring as to
mock the Kala Kanta himself! It was foolish, of course, but it was also worthy
of
applause.
"I take it as said that Mr. Ransome and the charming Mrs. Sturges are
fully in favour of the sale?"

"Oh
yes. Fully."

It
was a slight variation of the truth. Ransome, in fact, was dead against it. If
he had eventually succumbed to Olivia's pleas, it was only because his great
affection for her prevented him from refusing her anything. Estelle had agreed
to a sale; the details she had no need of yet. She would bow meekly to Arthur
Ransome's decisions. But all this was unnecessary for Mooljee to know.

"And
it is the main house itself that the lady memsahib intends to convert into this
hotel?"

A
small smile touched the corners of Olivia's lips. "No. That would hardly
be adequate. To house the hotel I have other plans."

The
spate of letters arriving daily from Estelle, and Olivia's own persuasions,
finally convinced Arthur Ransome to agree to a holiday in Cawnpore. Truly,
there was now no reason for him to remain in Calcutta. Having found his
footing, Lubbock no longer needed assistance; neither the fabrication of the
furniture nor finances presented any more problems. All things considered,
Ransome should have been a man satisfied with at least this aspect of his life.
He was not. On the contrary, he was still eaten away with anxieties. Try as he
might, he could not rid himself of the suspicion that everything he had been
watching had been a cleverly stage-managed shadow play, that the reality behind
the screen was entirely different. He had, reluctantly and against his better
judgement, accepted Olivia's offer for the Templewood house as part of
Farrowsham's diversification plans, but he was not satisfied with her
explanations, however plausible. It was not the commercial viability of the
scheme that worried him. The market was already humming with interest; even the
Company's top echelons were putting out feelers. Ransome's worry stemmed from a
more personal cause and, eventually, he could not hold his tongue any longer.

"You
have made a great deal of work for yourself with this hotel project of yours,
Olivia. I wish I could believe your intentions of actually seeing it
through."

It
was the night before his departure for Cawnpore. They were in the Templewood
dining-room sharing Babulal's final
offering of an aromatic stew, more
Indian than Irish but still very tasty. Tomorrow there would be padlocks on all
the doors and, save two watchmen and a part-time sweeper, no servants would
remain. Ransome would hand over possession to Olivia and that would be that.
Another chapter of his life was concluding and the thought was making him
melancholy.

Recognising
his sentiments, Olivia pressed his hand fondly. "Don't
worry,
Uncle
Arthur! Everything will turn out for the best, you'll see."

The
vague reassurance did not address the point he was trying to make. He knew she
had deliberately evaded it. "Olivia, before I leave I feel it is my duty
to say what I am about to." He couldn't accept any more prevarications.
"I hope you will take it well, for I speak as one to whom your welfare is
of utmost concern. You are a woman of grit, of exceptional resilience and
competence. The reputation that you have earned for yourself as an astute
businesswoman is really quite enviable and I, as do many others, respect
it—indeed, I more than anyone. I personally am beholden to you for life. No,
don't dismiss that!" He aborted her move to protest. "To our beleaguered
firm you have been a selfless supporter. But," he paused, looking for
words, "you are still a woman, a wife and a mother. The world of commerce
is unparalleled in its excitement, I grant you, but it is also a world of
cutthroats, dirty dealings, graft, corruption and gutter moralities, to say
nothing of often gutter mentalities. Of course it's much the same anywhere in
the world where there are such rich pickings, but this, Olivia, is not the
world for you. Your life and that of your child," he said with solemn earnestness,
"must be with your husband. It is to England that you must now look for
your future. Leave Willie to tackle Raventhorne as best he can. Left on his
own, he will conjure up some adequately crafty devices and compromises."

It
was the most frankly personal advice he had ever ventured to give her.
Listening to it, Olivia filled with sadness. No longer could she keep at least
part of the truth from this man she had learned to love and regard as a father.
"I will not be joining Freddie in England," she said quietly.
"There are too many irreconcilable differences between us to ever consider
being together again."

Hearing
the town's gossip confirmed so bluntly, Arthur Ransome's warm, kindly eyes
dimmed. When he spoke, his throat was thick with feeling. "But there must
be some grounds for a rapprochement at least for Amos's sake!" He was, of
course,
unaware of the supreme irony of that remark. "And also for the sake of the
little one that is to be. What on earth can Freddie be thinking of!
Two
fatherless
infants—how will you manage?"

"It
is not Freddie who is to blame," she muttered inaudibly, almost blurting
out the rest of the truth but then realising just how foolish that would be. It
would only shatter all the rest of his illusions and cause him even more
sorrow. A ribbon of pain threaded through the unguarded crevices of her mind.
"Oh, I will manage. As you yourself said, I am resilient."

"But
my dear child . . .!" Once again unembarrassed to display emotion, he
could not hold back his grief. "The load of your responsibility, the moral
stresses—have you considered those? I need hardly add that, for what it is
worth, you can always depend on me for any assistance,
any."
Overcome,
he stopped. Then, in quite a different tone, he added, "I know that in our
lives we must each do what we think is right. But, Olivia, I beg you, in your .
. . crusade against Jai, do not lose sight of the forest for the trees."
For all his confirmed bachelorhood, his lack of experience with women, Arthur
Ransome was no fool. He had long sensed that there were in Olivia's life vast
tracts that were hidden, tracts where trespassers would not be welcome. So far
he had made his observations in silence. Even now he treaded warily, for the
ground was largely unfamiliar. "Don't drive Jai too far, Olivia. Cornered,
he can be uncompromisingly vicious—as I scarcely need to remind you. Jai never
forgives, never forgets."

Olivia
broke the uncomfortable tension of the moment with a light laugh and a shrug.
"In that case, we are certainly well matched. You see, Uncle Arthur,
neither do I."

It
was June again. For the third time since Olivia had been in India, the monsoon
clouds started to gather.

Though
satisfied with her general health, Dr. Humphries passed severe strictures on
Olivia's continuing attendance at the office and what he called her game of
ducks and drakes with the collective nerves of the city. "I appreciate
your efforts to bring me patients, my girl, but with your Willie as a charge I
might as well take to the asylum myself! What are you trying to do, take over
the blasted Empire? For heaven's sake, woman, at least for the time being leave
the acrobatics to the men!"

"But
I enjoy my work," Olivia protested. "What would I do at home all day?
I'd be bored stupid."

"Do?
Good God, do what other women do when they're about to deliver babies. Make
booties and bonnets and jams and lace doilies,
that's
what!
Incidentally, didn't you tell me that Estelle plans to return in time for your
confinement?"

"Yes.
She insists on it."

"And
a damn good thing too! If nothing else chains you to the hearth, I'm sure your
determined cousin will. By all means return to do battle—but
after
your
child is born."

It
was, of course, salutary advice. Wisely Olivia resigned herself to it, knowing
that in order to "do battle" her presence wasn't really necessary at
the Agency. The front that she had now opened was located elsewhere. Also, the
enforced inactivity allowed her to spend longer hours with her son. It broke
Olivia's heart that, save for the servants' children, Amos did not have any
little playmates. She was aware that the strange seclusion in which she kept
her child was the subject of avid gossip in station. Since the time of his
birth Amos had never been seen either in the park or at other children's birthday
parties or, indeed, in the carriage driving out with his mother. Not even the
good doctor— as Millie Humphries frequently pointed out to her friends—had ever
set eyes on Amos Birkhurst's little face, except just after he was born when he
had been displayed briefly to callers. Some whispered knowingly that the boy
was deformed, so hideously in fact that his mother dared not reveal his person
for fear of open ridicule. Others, less imaginative, put it down baldly to
Olivia's intolerably hoity-toity airs. The schemingly acquired title and riches
had turned her head, and her victories over
that man,
paltry business
successes and importance in her husband's Agency even more so. The truth was,
the majority averred, that milady considered her precious son too good for the
likes of
their
modest, middle-class progeny. In that case, la-di-da—see
if
they
cared!